


My Body's Broken, Yours is Bent

by myfinefriend



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, S&M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 15:50:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2275566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myfinefriend/pseuds/myfinefriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock is driving himself (and everyone around him) crazy between cases, John comes for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Body's Broken, Yours is Bent

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Every You and Every Me by Placebo - that's also where I stole the title from.

It only happens during those long stretches between cases. When the drought of criminal activity in London becomes unbearable and so does Sherlock and John simply cannot stand it anymore - that’s when he comes for him. It could be in the middle of the night when Sherlock is slumped on the sofa staring at the walls or in the middle of the afternoon after a cup of tea but there is always the same strange intensity in the doctor’s eyes and that odd, cold, wonderful feeling in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach when he realises what is about to happen.

There are no kisses or ripping off clothes and there is no heat when they reach the bedroom; none of the intimacy of their lovemaking or their celebratory fucks at the end of a case. He strips and John waits and the atmosphere is tangible, electric and Sherlock feels as though he can taste the anticipation, metallic and tart, sharp on his tongue.

There are no words as the consulting detective kneels, pliant, at his partner’s feet and waits patiently for the first sting of contact. In those moments, the world is quiet and there is nothing else except John’s breathing above him, his hand clenching and unclenching as Sherlock sits, head bowed, heart racing. He lets out a breath he doesn’t realise he’s been holding when he feels John’s palm come into contact with his now flushed cheek. His body tingles and he pants in the aftershock of the slap, curls hanging as he stares unseeing at his knees. John’s fist is soon in his hair, tugging his head back and forcing eye contact and as Sherlock’s gaze locks onto John's he can feel the change coming over him already. He’s losing himself, losing Sherlock Holmes and becoming a body, a man, a physical being whose fate is in the hands of another and it is glorious. He no longer cares for the cases and he no longer itches for the cocaine as long as John’s blows are raining down upon him.

As he feels his face bloody and his body bruise, Sherlock ceases to hear the slaps of skin on skin or the ragged, torn breaths that fill the room. He stopped differentiating between the grunts of him and those of John long ago and the gag that is now tied around his mouth is cutting into the seams of his lips and it is glorious, like white noise, and he groans in relief as the next blow hits him. His erection is hot and demanding but he won’t touch it, he daren’t, and sure enough John is tightly binding his hands behind his back out of the way and as he does so Sherlock can see he’s straining against his jeans.

The first time they did this, John was unsure and cautious. Afterwards, his guilt consumed him. He was a doctor who he mended people, he didn’t take them apart. But now he understood - they’d done this enough times for him to begin to see why Sherlock craved it. John Watson was as broken as Sherlock Holmes was twisted and in these moments they stretched and straightened and fixed themselves. John did not think, in these moments, of bullets or blood or lost men on the battlefield or of the overwhelming guilt he felt some mornings just getting out of bed when so many others lay in their graves. John Watson did not think, full stop, not when he was hurting Sherlock and Sherlock was begging and leaning up into his touch and shaking and crying for more. He felt his groin burning as his erection rubbed against his clothes, every touch too much, but this wasn’t about getting off – it never had been. There were easier ways to do that, he thought as he heard Sherlock groan, pre-cum leaking from his painfully hard cock. That was simply a by-product of this, their recalibration.

His hands were stinging with the force of his slaps now and he felt blood sticky on his fingertips. As Sherlock cried out, cock twitching as he reached orgasm without so much as a touch, John didn't stop his blows once, with the exception of wrenching Sherlock's head back by those beautiful curls so that he might see the look on his face as he came. Just as the sight pushed John over the edge himself, coming helplessly in his pants, he saw Sherlock smile as he collapsed, boneless and bloody, below him - fixed, for now. 


End file.
